Chris's grandmother had just died. Just a month before school had begun, he had stood with his father---now the last remaining family he had---and watched her fade away. Reid didn't care that, often, he would cry when a student talked about their problems, about what they had left behind or what, now, they would have to endure. And when it was something to do with school, Reid would do everything in his power to make that better. This time, however, all Reid could do was nod along, wipe away a tear here or there, and say that maybe someday it would get better. Easier, perhaps. He could speak from experience that the loss of such a close person in life was devastating, but it couldn't dictate your entire life. He offered a listening ear any time Chris wanted to tell someone about whatever else was on his mind, and Chris smiled and nodded, and before he left, offered a quick hug.

Reid watched him go, then turned to look at his day's collections. Three folders of green and blue, marked with a big, gentle number: 1, 2, 3. All his art classes, thirty students in all, some coming back later in the day for their writing class. He let the door remain open after Chris departed, loving the warm breeze that came in when someone walked along the hall outside. Sitting, he flipped open the finished folder with a bright 3 on it and started running through. Before dinner he wanted to get some 'grading' done, if he could call it that. He did have to give them a letter grade at the end of each semester, but he based it all on current ability rather than what led up to that ability.

And having his door open let others know that he was there, and available to be talked to about whatever was on their mind, teacher or student alike.